


Comfort Zone

by sgamadison



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgamadison/pseuds/sgamadison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, Rodney knew what he had to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Zone

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the 2013 McShep Match for Team Cool. Prompt: Thick and Thin. My special thanks to the moderators of the McShep Match who kept this fest running all these years--that's true devotion from some dedicated fans! Also thanks go to starry_diadem for the hasty last minute beta--all mistakes are mine due to inveterate tweaking.

He obviously wasn't trying very hard to be quiet this morning. After all this time together, Rodney realized that John assumed nothing short of a nuclear assault or a full-blown city-wide crisis could wake Rodney before he had to get up. Most days John was right. Not that he was making a lot of noise. He just wasn't doing the Silent Ninja thing he used to do when they first began all of this.

It wasn't about sneaking out before dawn, either, or pretending that he didn't stay there more nights than not. When DADT had been repealed, the reaction of the expedition had been not so much one of "OMG, I _knew_ it!" as it was "Yeah, like you thought we didn't know?" Rodney recalled how anxious John had been about telling Lorne, and even now, he smiled when he remembered what Lorne's response had been to officially finding out that his CO was doing the Chief Science Officer. "That's nice, sir. If I get those quarterly requisition orders to you by 1200 today, will you be ready to sign off on them?"

At the time, John had seemed just a little put out.

Woolsey had asked if they wanted to move into joint quarters, a question that practically had John breathing into a paper bag. Rodney, too, if truth be told. What they had worked very well between them, thank you very much. They didn't need to live together, or god forbid, get married in order to be—well, committed. When Rodney was feeling Spartan, he would stay with John. When John was feeling sybaritic, he stayed at Rodney's. Or at least, that's how he put it. John had a surprisingly large vocabulary when he chose to use it. Rodney suspected that the long-running joke about him never finishing _War and Peace_ was just that. A joke that John perpetuated because on some level, it amused him.

Rodney's response to the repeal of DADT had been to order a larger bed (okay, larger than the one he'd already special-ordered before, because for pity's sake, John couldn't stay on his own side of the bed if his life depended on it), and his room _did_ have the huge Jacuzzi-like tub. John's room had a nice view of the city off the balcony and was closer to the East Pier, where they still liked to hang out in the evenings and shoot the breeze. Besides, they'd made some special memories in John's place. So it only made sense that they each keep their original quarters. As John had pointed out once, a healthy relationship (though he really didn't use those terms) included built-in space. Rodney agreed whole-heartedly.

They were good. They were fine. They were cool.

Shortly after the repeal, they'd taken matters into their own hands about the city, and once you've stolen an entire city, where you slept at night was a moot point. So no, this morning wasn't about John having to creep out before anyone noticed he wasn't where he was 'supposed' to be. It was simply about him meeting Ronon for their morning run, part of the old routine, something they'd been doing for years now. Running was as necessary to John's mental well-being as flying. Probably Ronon's as well. In fact, Ronon reminded Rodney of one of the Big Cats back on Earth. A lion, perhaps, or maybe a tiger. Something big and hairy that could consume an obscene amount of food at a single meal, and seemed to enjoy sitting around basking in the sunlight for hours, doing nothing productive as far as Rodney could tell. At the same time, Ronon could suddenly explode with a lethal turn of speed that belied his apparent laziness, becoming a lean predator in the blink of an eye. Rodney had asked Ronon once how he could just sit around doing nothing and not go mad with boredom. Ronon had given him one of those fish-eyed stares and said that it made a nice change from being a Runner. Though since Ronon had begun dating Dani, Rodney had noticed Ronon spent less time lounging about and more time quietly working on small projects within the city. Rodney had been tempted on more than one occasion to call Ronon henpecked, but then he was sort of fond of breathing through an unbroken nose, so he didn't.

Regardless of Ronon's relationship status, John wasn't being particularly quiet this morning, and Rodney watched him now through half-shut eyes, smiling to himself as he did so. Watching John dress or undress was one of his favorite pastimes. Rodney knew full well that much was made over his own ass, and in truth, it was a _magnificent_ ass, but John's ass was the best kept secret in Atlantis. Rodney's secret, as a matter of fact. John couldn't help it if Rodney's ass eclipsed his—much like the moon passing through the orbit of the sun. Like the way people made a big deal over John's hair and not Rodney's. It was just a fact of life. Rodney had this theory that John deliberately disguised his ass when in military uniform because for much of his career, such things were off-limits, and John hadn't wanted to tempt anyone beyond endurance. That _had_ to be the reason John usually wore baggy BDUs that prevented most people from knowing just how great his ass really was. Rodney's lips curved as he thought about taking a bite. No, it was the fact that John practically had no hips at all, and that his clothes seemed to want to slide off of him, that made people think there was nothing there to hold them up. _Au contraire_.

Rodney's mental lapse into French amused him, and he could barely keep from snickering. He didn't want John to become aware that he was being watched, though. A watched John was an unpredictable thing. Discovering covert observation on Rodney's part often made him uncomfortable, and Rodney didn't want to do anything that might spoil his show this morning. Not that it would take John long to get dressed. Even after all this time, he still placed his clothing carefully on a nearby chair, so that he could dress at a moment's notice. Already wearing his boxers (how many pairs of blue striped boxers did the man have, for heaven's sake? Rodney distinctly recalled throwing away the last pair when they completely disintegrated in the wash), John shrugged his way into one of his ubiquitous black T-shirts. It, too, having faded to a kind of brownish tint from sheer age. Rodney admired the long lines of John's body, and smiled at the way John's hair sprang back up after he pushed his head through the neck of his shirt. He didn't care for the new and still raw-looking scar, much like a scorch mark, that scored John's ribcage. It was a grim reminder of how, once again, they'd almost lost him. Thankfully, the near-death experiences were fewer these days. John seemed to _finally_ be developing a sense of self preservation after all this time. It's just that Pegasus was still a hard mistress, even to those of them who loved her well.

The chest hair was decidedly silvering now, which was just all kinds of hot in ways that constantly surprised Rodney. Because if you'd asked him back in college which he preferred: silky blondes with big boobs or hairy Colonels with a pert little ass, he would have hesitated only a moment before choosing the girl. And if you'd given him a choice between a hot, intelligent, perky blonde half his age or a drawling, sarcastic, graying Colonel with commitment issues and a mile-wide competitive streak, well, he would have laughed if someone had told him that he would choose the Colonel.

That was before Pegasus. Before Atlantis. Before John.

Rodney frowned as he watched John step into his gray BDUs and pull them up. Come to think of it, it had been a while since Rodney had done more than squeeze that ass in passing. He could recall a time when they couldn't get enough of each other. When waking early would find him in a tangle of limbs and blanketed with warm skin, and the urge to touch, and smooth, and lick would be too great to be ignored, despite the risks.

When was the last time sex between them had been spontaneous and uncontrolled? Rodney couldn't remember. These days, things around the city were pretty quiet. Oh sure, they still ran into trouble from time to time, but with the Wraith and the Replicators practically neutralizing each other, their biggest concerns came from Pegasus settlements growing and expanding too quickly, leap-frogging over their neighbors when trading for new technology had advanced their culture hundreds of years almost overnight. One of the weirdest things Rodney had seen lately was the settlement where it was considered the height of rudeness to speak to someone directly—everyone communicated via text messages on the local equivalent of a cell phone.

John had been forced to bail him out of jail on that world.

Where was he? Oh. Right. The sex. Or the lack thereof. No, that wasn't accurate, either. There was regular sex. It had just become somewhat... perfunctory. When did they get to be such an established couple? For example, take now. John was three-quarters of the way dressed. Rodney could leap out of bed right now and dance naked in front of him, and John would still go running with Ronon. These days, Rodney could almost predict when they'd have sex. If it wasn't one of those rare mornings when neither one of them had any place they needed to be at a specific time, then Rodney could pretty much count on having to wait until the next week when they both had a day off. What happened to the times when all Rodney had to do was come in the door and drop to his knees, and John was his for the taking? When was the last time John had come home sweaty from some workout, and taken Rodney up against the desk? Or in the shower, with the hot water pounding down on them and the languid, slippery feel of soapy hands on each other's skin? Or one of Rodney's favorites: post-mission, when John tasted of dirt and smelled of gunpowder, and there was a desperation to the way they clutched at each other.

When had they gotten so goddamned complacent about each other?

It was a little disturbing. Rodney continued to watch John as he got ready, noting how the mattress depressed slightly when John sat on the end and put on his socks and running shoes. Rodney did the math in his head, and the number he came up with shocked him. It had been five years since he'd broken up with Jennifer. Five years since he'd realized that this 'friends with benefits' thing he'd had going on with John was oh-so-much-more and he'd admitted that he'd only been kidding himself with his relationships with women. Looking back now, he could see that he'd been in denial that someone like John could possibly be interested, really interested, in someone such as him. For years, he'd told himself that what he shared with John was just a release valve from the stresses of Pegasus until both of them found the woman of their dreams. It almost made him laugh now to think of how stupid he'd been. Because all that time he'd been pursing first Katie, and then Jennifer, John had dated no one. Oh sure, he'd had a reputation for being a Kirk, but no one could actually testify to that. Like the sleight-of-hand with _War and Peace_ , for some reason John had chosen to let people believe what they would of him. Well, given the U.S. military's stance on homosexuality, it made sense in retrospect.

It still didn't explain how John had wound up with him. Not that he was complaining, mind you. Setting smug satisfaction aside, Rodney frowned again. Five years post-Jennifer. Add that to the length of time he'd known John—since the beginning of the expedition—and they were coming up on a ten year anniversary of sorts. Ten years. It was hard to believe he'd known John almost ten years. Ten of the most exhilarating, most terrifying, most satisfying years of his life. John was edging up on fifty now, with Rodney not far behind—one competition he was very happy to lose, thank you very much. Ten years with John. It was hard to believe.

Of course, there were some benefits with the creep from middle-aged into more senior status. John had been promoted to full Colonel, even it if was only within the expedition itself. One tended to be persona non grata with the IOA , the USAF, and the world leadership when you stole an alien city full of powerful technology and took it back to the galaxy in which it belonged. How they'd survived that terrible year on Earth before John finally snapped and came up with The Plan, Rodney could scarcely recall. It had been a dark time for them all. His relationship with Jennifer had been one of the first things to go—and his renewal of sex with John had been one of those things they'd both done to make them feel better about a bad situation.

Until the night John had taken Teyla and Ronon aside and shared with them his (well, okay, by now _their_ ) plan to steal Atlantis and go back to Pegasus. Astonishingly (though perhaps not, now that Rodney thought about it) almost every single person they'd cautiously approached in the days that followed had breathed a huge sigh of relief and asked John when they were leaving. Even Woolsey.

Almost all of the original expedition members chose to return. Jennifer had not. No surprise there, Rodney knew. There'd been a curious reluctance on the part of the entire team to even ask her, and Rodney knew it was less about his failed relationship than because they weren't sure she wouldn't try to stop them. He'd felt bad when she'd confronted him with that.

"You'll need someone on this end anyway to help cover up your escape." Jennifer's smile had been brittle with hurt. "I'm just sorry you didn't think you could confide in me. Do you really think that little of me?"

"It wasn't like that!" Rodney had protested, even as John made a strategic retreat. "I know how important your family is to you and this would have cut you off from them forever. I know you wouldn't have wanted that, so no, we didn't think to include you in—" He'd broken off at that point. He could hardly call the taking of Atlantis 'The Great Heist' the way they'd been referring to it.

"You still could have told me. What about your family? Are you okay with not seeing them again?"

"They'll be fine without me." He loved Jeannie and her family, even more now than he had during all those years of estrangement before the Atlantis expedition, but his real family, the one he'd been with for the last ten years, was going back to Pegasus. There was no way he'd let them go without him.

It wasn't all just the old expedition members, however. John had cautiously recruited a wide variety of skilled professionals—not just scientists, but the kind of people who knew how to make things too. Sometimes late at night, when they'd sat on the East Pier and looked up at the Milky Way (and how very _wrong_ that had felt after five years in Pegasus), John would talk about his plans for Atlantis once they got back home. Rodney had never heard him be so loquacious before, and when John had spoken of his plans for the future of the city, for the most part, Rodney had learned to shut up and listen. The breeze off the San Francisco Bay had been chilly and damp. John would lean up against Rodney, sharing the blanket that had begun as something on which to spread their picnic, huddling in close for Rodney's warmth, and talk about his plans for the future. Plans that Rodney would shoot down when necessary, but for all that, good plans just the same. It was funny, but John could always talk more and dream bigger when they were out there in the dark, cursing the fog and sipping beer, than in any of their planning sessions indoors. Rodney suspected it was something about the open sky that let his ideas soar.

Along with the various professionals they'd surreptitiously sounded out, John had also approached a select few of the new military personnel now stationed in the city. To John's surprise, Ronon had made a strong objection when Sergeant-Major Danielle Worthington-Smythe of the Royal Marines had asked to come with them.

"What have you got against Sergeant-Major Worthing, er, ah, Worthy, no, ah..." John had floundered over the unwieldy name.

"Call me Smythe, sir. It's easier to say." The Sergeant-Major had spoken with a clipped, British accent, pronouncing the 'y' in her name to rhyme with 'eye'. She had fair coloring, and moved with the same sort of grace that Teyla did, which probably meant years of training in some sort of exotic unarmed combat. She might look like an English rose, but Rodney suspected she could smash bricks with a karate chop of her hand. She had smiled engagingly at Teyla and Rodney as she'd spoken. "Dani to my friends."

"You're not going." Ronon had snarled in her face. She was a tall woman; for once he didn't have to lean down very far. His ferocity would have been enough to make Rodney to forget any plans of going to Pegasus and plunk his bottom down on Earth. He had flinched just watching Ronon yell at her. "Only an idiot would go to Pegasus when they lived here."

Smythe, however, had merely raised a delicate eyebrow and spoke in that exquisitely British accent of hers with a manner that brooked no argument. "You're going. Therefore, so am I. End of discussion."

And it _had_ been the end of the discussion. Ronon had glowered and pouted but she came with them when they stole the city, and she and Ronon had been dating ever since. Rodney suspected Ronon still wasn't sure how that had happened.

With the return of Atlantis to Pegasus, John had slowly taken a less front-line approach to leadership and had become more of a delegator. Rodney and Woolsey both had finally persuaded him that his experience made him too valuable to risk in the field on a daily basis. John and Rodney, too, had learned to sit back and let younger, hardier teams head out for the tough missions, while they took the information gathered and data generated by the teams, and made plans for the city and the expedition accordingly. Returning to Pegasus hadn't been easy. While John had left the day to day running of the city to Woolsey, everyone knew that John was the real leader here. They were out here on their own now. As such, John and Rodney both had found themselves more administrators than the guys that made first contact. It had been a hard adjustment at first, but it had been worth it.

Or had it? At this moment, Rodney wasn't so sure. Because somewhere along the way, he and John and become predictable. And that was the kiss of death to most relationships, right?

He could tell from the way John bent over that he was tying his track shoes. Any moment now, he'd be heading out to meet Ronon. The opportunity to be spontaneous was slipping away and it was killing Rodney because, yeah, right, spontaneity wasn't something you planned.

And then it happened. John stood up. Rodney could tell from the way his shoulders moved that he was fastening his watch onto his wrist, only something slipped, and the watch fell to the floor. As John bent down to pick up the watch, Rodney got a clear glimpse of the back of his head.

And the thinning patch of hair there.

It was all he could do not to suck in his breath with an audible gasp. John was taller than him (Six foot two to his five foot ten, something John liked to point out on a regular basis), so the back of his head wasn't a view Rodney often got to see. But there it was: a noticeably thin spot on his scalp. The instinctive urge to crow was immediately squashed by the sense of impending doom.

This was a fucking disaster.

Rodney's hair had been retreating from his forehead for years—decades, even. He'd recently shaved his hair very short in acceptance of the inevitable. No matter what he did to mitigate the incipient baldness, however, Rodney still looked silly. His hair was either wispy and overly long in an attempt to compensate for the exaggerated widow's peak and retreating hairline, or it was an irritating stubble that failed to emulate Captain Picard's sleek dome no matter how hard he tried. He'd become resigned to the fact that his hair was determined to make him as unattractive as possible. At the moment, he had slightly more fuzz than a kiwi. As a matter of fact, his week-old stubble and his hair were about the same length.

But John Sheppard was all about The Hair. He was known for it. It was one of the first things you noticed about him. John's hair had been known to make men and women everywhere swoon when he walked into a room. For him to have the beginnings of a bald spot was unthinkable.

This would destroy him.

Rodney knew this without a doubt. It would be on the order of John developing cataracts or high blood pressure and being banned from flying. This was catastrophic because there was no surgery, no medical option for truly correcting hair loss. If there was, there would be no bald people. John was remarkably grounded for such a good-looking man but he was incredibly vain about his hair. This would just kill him.

Rodney had no clue what to do. No idea how to head off this disaster. No words of advice or sympathy that wouldn't make things ten times worse. Bad enough when John teased him about his own hair loss—but that was a given. It was like Rodney calling him a Kirk all those years ago; it was an accepted form of teasing because it was _safe_. Sneaking bottles of Rogaine into his shaving kit, or making fun of his sudden ability to reflect light would be akin to John teasing Rodney about losing his mental facilities. Of losing his touch in the lab, of needing a sharper mind to help him with his calculations. Unthinkable. Rodney shuddered.

He spared a moment to freak out over getting older in general. Because, yeah, his knees weren't what they used to be, and his weight fluctuated up and down like a yo-yo, depending on how dedicated he was to exercising or whether he was sticking to his diet. Still, no one had yet suggested that perhaps a younger Chief Science Officer would be needed in a few years.

Then he remembered this was about John and not him.

He looked up to find John's narrowed glance upon him.

"Something wrong, McKay?"

Rodney secretly loved it when John called him McKay. It reminded him of when they first started working together and there was something about that drawled _McKay_ that sent a little frisson of pleasure through him, even after all this time. It brought back memories of hair-raising missions and near-death experiences, and for some reason, the smell and taste of sand. Oh. Right. Because there'd been a lot of sand on that planet where the Super-Wraith had almost killed them all. That had been the first time he and John had gotten together—post mission to check out the Lagrange Point satellite and the horrendous experience on the planet below it. When John called him McKay, it felt as though he'd taken a TARDIS back to those early days, when everything between them was new and hot.

Except now, of course, when he felt pinned in the headlamps of that sardonic stare.

"No, no, nothing at all, why do you ask?" Rodney almost stammered out the words.

John's eyebrow rose even further. "You look like you've seen a Wraith."

"Don't be silly. I'm just watching you get dressed. Besides, Wraith in the city? Ha-ha. When's the last time that happened?"

"A fissure line in one of the ZPMs, then. Or one of the scientists has discovered that you've made a mistake in calibrating the alignment of the naquada generators."

This was so similar to Rodney's thoughts earlier that it made him snap. "As if. Looks like someone woke up on the delusional side of the bed this morning."

One side of John's mouth lifted in that maddening, impossibly sexy half-smile that Rodney had been witnessing for almost ten years now. "You heard the rumor that Kavanagh is trying to come back to Atlantis."

Rodney pushed up out of bed with a squawk. "What? How the hell—oh wait, right. Not possible because we declared independence when we ran off with the city. Very funny. Better keep your day job. Though next open mike night in the mess, I fully expect to see you try out this stand-up routine."

"Actually," John drawled in that classic manner of old, the tone and timbre of his voice both grating and gratifying at the same time, "since we've made contact with Earth again, and declared official independence, the possibility of getting people applying as colonists is on the table." He focused on fastening his watch without looking up until he was done. "We need skilled workers if we want to be truly independent. People who know how to make textiles, basic goods."

"You mean bullets." Rodney's voice was dry.

"Well, yeah." John's sudden grin was so engaging that Rodney almost forgot about The Impending Tragedy. "I gotta run. I'm going to be late."

He left without kissing Rodney goodbye. Rodney was so deep into the problem of the bald spot that he didn't even notice until it was too late to complain.

Fuck. This was obviously a job for Teyla.

***

If nothing else, Torren should have made Rodney aware of the passage of time. Though to be fair, Rodney suspected that children operated on a different scale of the space/time continuum, much in the same manner as dogs. Because there was no way that time passed at the same rate for Torren as it did for the rest of them.

Rodney remembered when Torren was born, for pity's sake. He'd been there. He'd been instrumental in Torren's delivery under the most adverse of conditions—during Teyla's rescue from her imprisonment aboard Michael's ship. Just hours before, Michael had dropped an entire building on all of them. By all rights, they should have still been in the infirmary, recovering from being buried alive under a ton of rubble. Only John's indomitable insistence that they pursue Michael while there was still a chance of catching him allowed them to be in time to save Teyla's life. Oddly, what Rodney remembered most about that whole incident was the way John and Ronon had come running into the room shortly after Teyla had delivered, and Rodney had been full of pride in the fact that he'd handled a biological situation without freaking out, without dropping the newborn Torren to the floor. That, and the fact that John's first words, after he'd gathered himself together at the sight of Rodney handing Teyla her newborn son, had been those of praise at his performance.

Even after all this time, it warmed his heart. Or flattered his pride. One or the other. He could never remember which.

But that tiny, red-faced, wrinkled baby had somehow become this incredibly...well, Rodney didn't want to use the word adorable, because, ah, no. He just couldn't. But he'd seldom seen a child that actually warranted such a description. Torren was like a sturdy colt now, all legs and arms, with a mop of dark hair that was threatening to turn chestnut as he got older, and his parents' coffee-brown skin and chocolate-brown eyes. Uncle Ronon, along with his father, had taught Torren how to shoot and fish and throw knives, among other deadly things that freaked Rodney out, no matter how fast Athosian children had to grow up. Torren had taken to archery like a duck to water and they'd had to have a serious discussion with him about appropriate targets after Torren shot one of the not!chickens that the biologists had been trying to domesticate in an attempt to provide the expedition with a ready source of fresh eggs. Rodney rubbed his old scar on his ass absently as he thought about that. He wasn't too fond of arrows. Though in Torren's defense, the not!chickens did have really sharp beaks and those inch long talons they used to eviscerate each other in mating season. Still, small children and archery was a bad mix in Rodney's book.

Uncle Rodney had seen to it that Torren 'spoke' computers as he would any other language, pointing out to Teyla that children were more receptive to learning languages before puberty. Miko taught him Japanese. Radek taught him swear words in Czech, until Teyla stopped him.

Uncle John taught him how to swim like an eel, and how to surf, since they'd naturally chosen to relocate Atlantis to another world that was predominantly water. This time without the giant poisonous snakes on the mainland, thank God. John had also taught Torren how to be a smart-ass, something for which Teyla had still not forgiven him.

Seeing Torren now, at breakfast with Teyla, made him realize just how really, really cute the kid was. Good nutrition and a safe place to live had meant that he could grow to his genetic potential—he was going to be taller than either Teyla or Kaanan. He was as nimble as a monkey and as inquisitive too. He reminded Rodney of Madison in the way he picked up on things, and Rodney suddenly recalled John's statement that morning about colonists. It occurred to him that Jeannie could actually apply for citizenship and bring her whole family to Atlantis, and that no longer seemed like a scary and terrible idea but one that might actually be, well, _nice_. Which of course, meant Rodney was getting old. There was no other explanation for it.

He found himself wishing for a TARDIS again. He'd go back to the beginning of the expedition and do it all over. Hopefully not making so many mistakes along the way. This sense of nostalgia was starting to make him a little sick inside.

Teyla looked up and noticed him walking toward them. She said something to Torren, who also looked up, his face breaking into a gap-toothed smile.

"Rodney. Do join us for breakfast." Teyla was smiling as well.

"I'm not hungry." Rodney took an empty seat distractedly, wondering how he could broach the subject with Torren sitting right there. If he wasn't careful, Torren would carry the entire conversation right back to John, and that would be horrendous. Torren was looking at him with bright curiosity as he ate a piece of fruit.

Rodney glanced at Teyla to see her staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "Is everything all right, Rodney?"

"No." Rodney made sure no one could overhear them, and then leaned in for good measure. "I need to talk with you about something of a...ah, _personal_ nature."

"By all means." Teyla laced her fingers and rested her hands on the table, all attention.

Rodney indicated Torren with a sharp roll of his eyes. "Um, I can't. You know, little pitchers have big ears."

Teyla frowned in confusion. "I do not understand. How can pictures have ears?"

"Pitchers. Pitchers. Little _pitchers_ have big ears. Not _pictures_ as in photographs, but the things that hold water with the handles. You know, the things you pour liquids from." He looked around, noticed a coffee carafe on a hot plate, and pointed.

Teyla still looked confused. "I do not understand how a _pitcher_ can have ears either."

Come to think of it, neither did Rodney. Were the handles supposed to present the ears? Or were the 'little pitchers' meant to be players in Little League baseball? Hell, it was a stupid analogy. "It's an Earth saying. One that doesn't convey the meaning very well, for all that most people seem to know what it means."

"It means that you don't want to talk in front of kids 'cause we might repeat it. 'Cause we understand more than you think we do." Torren calmly reached for another piece of fruit and began to chew it with methodical precision.

"Oh." Teyla looked nonplussed.

_This_ was why Rodney was uncomfortable around children. The sneaky bastards had a way of calling you on your shit when you least expected it.

"Torren." Teyla spoke carefully. "If you have finished your breakfast, perhaps you would care to prepare a tray to take back to your father. I will join you shortly."

Torren rolled his eyes in an amazing imitation of John, and Rodney winced by association. He breathed a sigh of relief when Torren slid out of his chair and bounced off toward the cafeteria line. He noticed that Torren's sneakers were not tied, laces flopping as he moved with careless grace to get some breakfast for Kaanan.

"Do not think for one moment that I regret the peace that your people have finally brought to the Pegasus galaxy." Teyla watched Torren as she spoke. "But there are times..." She let her voice trail off.

"Where you'd like something to scare the snot out of him?" Rodney turned with her to watch Torren's progress.

"Pegasus is still a dangerous place to live. It would be nice if I could impress that fact upon him." She sighed in agreement with Rodney's statement. She gave a little shake, as though leaving behind wicked thoughts, and gave Rodney her full attention again.

"Right. So I don't have much time. Here's the problem." Rodney leaned in across the table and took Teyla's hands in his own. "John is losing his hair."

He waited for the impact of his words to sink in. When Teyla's expression merely took on one of faint puzzlement, he tried again. "I saw it, Teyla. A _bald_ spot. Right here." Rodney touched the back of his head.

Teyla leaned back in her seat, her action pulling her hands free from Rodney's grasp. "I fail to see what the problem is." Surprisingly, she looked unaccountably sour, which was not normal for Teyla. She might look exasperated, or fondly amused, or even confused when Rodney spoke with her about personal matters, but this _disgruntled_ expression was new.

Rodney blinked. First the Bald Spot. Now this. It felt as though his world was off its axis somehow. "I don't think you grasp the seriousness of the situation." Rodney lowered his voice and leaned in again so he couldn't be overheard. "John is going bald."

Teyla still looked unimpressed. "I fail to see the significance you men place on the losing of your hair. Few people in Athosian society live a normal lifespan. We consider the signs of aging naturally, unmarked in any way by the Wraith, to be a good thing. A badge of honor, if you will."

Given how much the Athosians had suffered and lost in the time that Rodney had known them, he could see that. Still, Teyla had to understand the significance of what was going on here. "I get what you're saying, I really do, but you have to understand, Teyla. It's his _hair_. I mean, you can't pick one thing that typifies John Sheppard more than his hair."

"His courage?" Teyla hazarded a guess. "His sense of honor and duty? His willingness to sacrifice himself for the good of others? Believe me when I say this, Rodney, no one followed the two of you back to Pegasus because of John Sheppard's _hair_."

It was oddly heartwarming to be included in the 'two of you'. Because Rodney knew deep down that everyone had followed _John_ back to Pegasus, not him. Granted, no one in their right mind would have gone back to Pegasus if Rodney had decided to stay on Earth—after all, he did keep the city from exploding most days. But John was the glue that held it together. It was odd to think now of John as expedition leader, but that's what he was, even if he didn't officially hold the title. Rodney thought Elizabeth would have been proud. As usual, the thought of Elizabeth sliced through his heart with random, unseeing pain, though time had diminished the brutality of it. But just the same, he couldn't think of her without that small stab, as though he'd unexpectedly cut his fingers. Sometimes he lay awake at night, when his brain was too wound up to let him sleep, listening to John snoring on the other side of him, and he wondered if there was anything he could have done differently, anything that could have saved Elizabeth, or Peter, or Carson the First.

"Look, I know you think I'm being silly and you think all men on Earth are vain for even caring about this, but I'm telling you, this is important to us. It's a sign of our virility. Of our attractiveness. Of our youth. Of our ability to command. Losing our hair is a big deal."

Especially when you had hair like John's. Eye-catching, that's what it was. Silky to the touch, surprisingly soft, despite its obstreperous need to defy all laws of gravity and military regulations. John's hair sort of exemplified him. It was as rebellious as James Dean. It _was_ John. He couldn't go bald.

Rodney narrowed his eyes when Teyla still looked unimpressed. "You mean to tell me that in another ten or fifteen years or so, you won't be considering whether or not to dye your hair? Missing the strength of your muscles? The endurance that you used to have?"

Teyla laughed; that musical sound that Rodney had always loved. "Rodney." Her expression was both pitying and sweet. "I am almost forty-two now. I never thought I would live to see my fortieth birth day. Every day is a gift. And no, I will not color my hair. I will embrace every moment that I have lived with honor and gratitude."

"Forty-two?" Rodney was flabbergasted, even as the geek part of his brain giggled and whispered _the meaning of life!_ To him, Teyla was still that woman in her early thirties that he'd met nearly ten years ago. It was impossible that she was middle-aged, especially since she looked so damn fine. It was hard to believe she was only a few years younger than him. Where the fuck had the time gone?

She laughed again, self-deprecatingly. "Do you mean to tell me that you will not love John as much if he loses all his hair?" She leaned across the table, her expression earnest as she captured his hands, mirroring his earlier action.

"No, no, of course not. I mean, yes, I will—" He broke off the sentence before he was forced to use the L word. Talk of love always embarrassed him, and he desperately wanted his hands back. "I'm just saying this will really affect John—and not in a good way."

Her expression was still pitying, but she released his hands before he had to pull them away. It wasn't that he couldn't handle the contact any longer; he just needed his hands to hold any sort of serious debate. He shook a finger at her as though making this point. "My feelings for John are as strong as ever. Stronger, even." He didn't know what possessed him to say that, but there, it was out in the open.

She was doing that all-knowing thing now, the expression that had always irritated the snot out of him. "Then I fail to see the problem."

Rodney made a noise of frustration, even as he mimed strangling something in front of him. "It's a problem because it will matter to John. And I have no idea how to handle this." And because on some level, he was afraid that looks _did_ matter and that someone as hot as John would leave him if he got too fat, or too bald, or too old himself. Even as a small voice argued that he'd been much heavier than he was now, or that if anything would drive someone off, it would be his basic personality, not his looks. That same voice reminded him that John had stood beside him even when a parasite was turning his brain to mush and he'd been the first one to pick up the power tools when trepanning had been laid out as a treatment option. Or as John had put it later, 'drilling a hole in your head, McKay, to let the bad juju out.' None of that mattered now. John must somehow be prevented from finding out that his hair was thinning.

"I think you are making—what is the expression of your people? A mountain out of a molehill."

Rodney shook his head sadly to himself. Teyla was proving to be a broken reed in this matter. Maybe it was because she was a woman. Intellectually, Rodney knew that women also suffered hair loss for various reasons, and that it was probably even more terrible for them when they did, but perhaps the very lack of commonality among women made Teyla less sympathetic. Because guys definitely got it. He bet he could go to Radek, or hell, Woolsey, for that matter, and they would instantly understand. Not that he would share this with anyone outside the team. He had to hide this for as long as possible. "Ronon will understand why this is such a big deal. You wait and see."

"Ronon." Teyla suddenly folded her lips as though trying to suppress a smile, her eyes alight with merriment as she did so. "You think Ronon will take your side in this matter?"

"Of course." Ronon wasn't just a guy; he was also a warrior. He hadn't survived all those years as a Runner being soft. He'd instantly recognize the significance of John's hair loss. Just the reminder of what Rodney had seen that morning took his breath away, and he told himself that it wasn't really a bald spot so much as a thinning. A bit more scalp visible than usual, that's all. Hell, it might even be that John had parted his hair differently that morning, or had applied a little too much of the hair putty he pretended he didn't use. Sure, that was probably it. But just in case it wasn't... "Trust me. Ronon will get it."

Teyla's amusement was like the barely contained excitement of people waiting for the guest of honor at a surprise party. Rodney frowned. "He's coming up behind me, isn't he?"

She nodded, eyes gleaming with glee.

"I'll understand what, McKay?" Ronon dropped into the chair beside Rodney, who gaped when he got a good look at him.

"What happened to your _hair_?" Rodney's voice was so loud that several people turned to look at them.

Ronon glowered at him briefly before assuming an attitude of nonchalance. With one arm draped across the back of his chair, he looked remarkably like John, and it occurred to Rodney that a lot of people seemed hell-bent on imitating John on any given day. Next thing he knew, he'd catch Woolsey leaning against one of the walls with the studied grace of a Han Solo—or a John Sheppard.

If Ronon hadn't sat right down beside him, Rodney doubted he would have recognized Ronon from across the room. Because the dreads were gone. The Medusa-like locks of hair that had adorned Ronon's head for as long as Rodney could remember had been clipped off, leaving curls of short black hair much darker than the sun-bleached dreads that Ronon had removed.

To Rodney's utter astonishment, Ronon flushed a light pink across his bronzed cheekbones. "Dani suggested it."

"You mean she demanded it." Rodney spoke without thinking.

Ronon narrowed his eyes, looking very much like a cat on spying lunch as he glared at Rodney. "She thought it was time for me to cut ties with the past."

"I believe she compared it to sleeping with a basket of old gym socks." Teyla was dryly amused.

Ronon reddened even further.

Rodney could see Dani's point. Ronon had been complaining about the heat of this planet's summer as well. He had to feel at least ten pounds lighter. But still, the timing couldn't have been worse. The cutting off of Ronon's dreads was bound to focus everyone on hair in general, at least for a while.

"John's losing his hair." Rodney blurted his secret out because he simply couldn't hold it in any longer.

Ronon's face, normally impassive, briefly reflected sympathy. "I know."

Outrage at this suppression of obvious information was quickly squashed. Of course, Ronon knew. He was taller than John; taller than almost anyone in the expedition. And what precisely would Rodney have done if he'd known earlier? It's not like he had a solution now.

"What do we do about it?" There. His helplessness in the matter lay belly up like a puppy admitting its defenselessness.

Teyla didn't _quite_ roll her eyes. Ronon, while more sympathetic, could only shrug. "I'm not sure there is anything you can do. It's not like you guys have found anything in the database to reverse balding, have you?" He sounded regretful, even as he unconsciously ran a hand through his short curls.

"No. You can bet we'd have been all over that if we had. Hell, it would have been the biggest scientific discovery of the millennium." Rodney was bitter. He'd really been counting on Ronon and Teyla to bail him out here. He briefly envisioned heading back to Earth, a hero for having discovered a cure for male pattern baldness, and realized that if he _had_ found such a solution, it would probably make him the richest man in two galaxies. Maybe he should search the database one more time, just in case...

"You could try distracting him."

"Distracting." Rodney cocked his head slightly to one side and squinted at Ronon. "What exactly do you mean?"

"I dunno." Ronon shrugged. "Keep him occupied."

"For the rest of his _life_?" Rodney opened the sluices of self-control and let his opinion of the utter stupidity of Ronon's suggestion drip acidly into his voice. "Gee, thanks, Ronon. Why didn't I think of that?" He didn't know why he'd thought Ronon would have some great insight here. Ronon was still quite young, comparatively speaking. Rodney recalled himself at that age, and how he'd thought himself invincible. He'd thought he was on the fast-track to a Nobel Prize, as well as undeniably attractive, and that he'd always be able to eat whatever he wanted without gaining an ounce. Hah.

Ronon would probably be one of those types that aged unbelievably well. Even if he did lose his hair, he'd probably be all sleek and muscular, with a shiny pate and that neatly trimmed beard and mustache and everyone would still think he was hot. No one would ever compare him to a kiwi.

"Rodney." Teyla's voice was gentle. "Is it possible that you might be somewhat overly concerned on this matter? That perhaps you are projecting your own feelings onto John?"

This was so close to his own line of thinking that Rodney could only be offended. "Thank you very much, Dr. Emmagan. You too, Ronon. You both have been an enormous amount of help here." He stalked off without responding when Teyla called out his name in protest.

***

Obviously, Rodney was on his own on this one. Teyla, in particular, had let him down, and he wasn't used to that. Granted, he felt slightly guilty over the way he'd reacted to her assumption that Rodney was really responding to his own hair loss instead of John's. He'd been rude and he knew it. He'd apologize later, however. When he figured out what he should do about John.

As he walked back to his quarters, he mulled over Ronon's suggestion. Right. As if he could keep John sufficiently occupied the rest of his life so that he would never notice that thinning patch on the back of his head. He snorted derisively as he palmed the door controls and let himself back into his quarters.

Ronon did have a point though. Until Rodney figured out what to do, he needed to keep John from noticing the...area of thinning. First things first: he had to make sure that neither mirror in Rodney's quarters would allow John access to the back of his head.

Rodney experimented with all the various ways in which he might deliberately, and then by accident, catch sight of the crown of his skull. The results of his efforts were mixed. Though he couldn't see the back of his own head by any method he could employ (short of using a hand-held mirror, which he did not possess, and which would imply that John was specifically looking to inspect that part of his scalp), ten minutes spent perusing his own reflection was somewhat depressing.

No two ways about it, his beard and his hair were about the same length. He rubbed one hand over his bristly chin, noting the week-old stubble that was probably the equivalent of one day in Sheppard-time. It was more noticeable with John's darker hair, but Rodney's 'beard' was graying too. On John, it gave him a sort of disreputable, Bad-Boy air. It just made Rodney look like a registered sex-offender. He trailed his fingers over his jaw line and down his throat, tilting his head first in one, then the other direction as he leaned in to the mirror for closer examination. At least he _had_ a jaw line again. Or rather, only one. But sadly the continuous line of fuzz from his scalp to his chin only emphasized the inadequacies of his hairline. Still, he couldn't shave. Not yet, anyway. John loved the feel of stubble grazing his skin. He went wild when bristles, just long enough to be softly scratchy, teased the smoothness of his bare skin. It made him dig in with impatient fingers, groan when the said stubble brushed the sensitive tip of a peaked nipple, growl with impatience and flip him over so mouths could devour each other hungrily. Oh. Wait. That was _Rodney_ who felt that way about John's stubble. He loved the feel of John's ever-present beard on his skin, right up until the time John shaved it, and then he loved the smoothness of John's skin and the smell of his aftershave every bit as much (though he would deny the aftershave part with his dying breath)—until the bristles made their appearance again.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Oh, his eyes were as blue as ever. And his smile as wryly crooked. But his hairline had receded so far as to be nonexistent, and while Rodney was proud of his big brain, there was an awful lot of skull showing now. He flexed a bicep at the mirror, smiling at the muscle he produced. Okay, so it wasn't in Ronon's league, but it was pretty damn spectacular, just the same. And though he didn't go running with Ronon and John (his ego wouldn't let him, and besides, he didn't want to kill his relationship with John because that was the sort of competition that would be bad between them), he was no slouch in the cardiovascular department, either. In fact, he was in better shape than he'd been in most of the time they'd been in Pegasus right up until they had landed in the San Francisco Bay. But this gray grizzle on his chin...that made him look like a grumpy old man. That would have to go.

Ronon's suggestion of keeping John busy resurfaced again, like a moth coming back to the same streetlamp. Not that Rodney could keep John from ever noticing that his hair was thinning, no, that wasn't possible, even for a genius like Rodney. But maybe Rodney _could_ distract him. At least until Rodney could convince John that it mattered not in the slightest if he went completely bald, or turned blue, or developed scales and changed into a bug. _Come to think of it, the bug thing had been kind of hot._ Rodney quashed that thought as being completely inappropriate for someone to be thinking about regarding their expedition leader, and lover, too, for that matter.

He fingered his stubble again. There was no way he'd ever look as demonically sexy as Ronon did with his neatly trimmed beard—Rodney's beard, scant that it was, was more like John's, a messy encroachment upon his face. Ever since Jeannie had hit him with the 'You're no John Sheppard' comment, Rodney had been consciously aware that when it came to their looks, the relationship was a little one-sided. Most of the time, however, he gave it little thought. Had he gotten a little complacent when it came to John? He looked down at his threadbare T-shirt, the lettering having almost faded away entirely. It wouldn't hurt him to put a little more effort into his appearance.

With new determination, he strode to his closet and opened it, pawing through the clothing hanging there. Uniforms greeted him at the front of the compartment. He still had outfits that dated back to the first year of the expedition. He slid those along on the clothes rod within, moving to his more casual clothing and wincing as he realized that most of it was horribly out of date. Most of his shirts had been ugly when first purchased—the passage of twenty years time hadn't improved that very much. Not much he could do about that now, though. It wasn't exactly like he could go shopping here in the Pegasus galaxy.

At the very back of the closet were several garment bags. Frowning, he pulled them out and carried them over to the bed, laying them out for easier access. The first contained his really good suit, the one he almost never wore, except to funerals and important meetings, like the last time he'd met with the IOA. In fact, it had been the botched attempt at forcing a friendly allied planet to dial the _Destiny_ against that government's expressed will that had pushed John over the edge when it came to sitting still on Earth any longer. That, and the fact that Rodney had almost ended up a prisoner of war over the incident.

"That's it." John had snarled in Rodney's face when he'd safely returned to Atlantis. Rodney remembered that evening vividly. John had been livid in that silky, _I can kill you with one hand tied behind my back_ manner that always gave Rodney a little shiver of excitement and dread whenever he'd heard John deploy it—and he'd rarely had it aimed at him. John had spun Rodney around on his entry into his quarters, springing on him like some trained assassin waiting for his mark. Rodney had greeted his actions with an _ooof_ of surprise, and then something like anger had boiled up in him. Anger at still being stuck on Earth all this time. Anger in being lied to by the IOA—told that all he had to do was present his case, with his personal improvements to the dialing system, to Ambassador Ovirda and his involvement would be done. The whole reason he'd gone along with the scheme to trick the Langarans into dialing their Gate through to _Destiny_ had been because Woolsey had convinced him that it was in the Langarans' best interest. Okay, and because he was bored stiff sitting in a cloaked Atlantis hiding in the Bay, and the word coming down from above wasn't good. The SGC was either going to dismantle the city and use the parts to bolster the Antarctica facility and existing spaceships, or they were going to move the city to the moon (which struck Rodney as an asinine waste of power with the potential for catastrophe should the shields fail). Either way, Rodney, along with everyone else from the former expedition still present in the city, was chafing at the inactivity.

Besides, who wouldn't want to get a look at _Destiny_? Even if it was only through the weird body-switching stones?

But the whole mission had left him feeling dirty inside, and he'd been glad when things had fallen through before they actually finished dialing _Destiny_ for real. The Langarans could have held all of them prisoner, could have tried him and Woolsey both for crimes against their planet, but instead, had chosen to send them home.

"What have we become, Woolsey?" Rodney had asked before he'd departed back to Atlantis. "Is this really the kind of person you want to be? Lying to heads of state? Using alien tech to impersonate their own people, so that our needs get met over their own objections?" When Rodney had left Atlantis, he and John both had been under the impression this was to have been milk run—go in, show the Langarans how the reconfigured dialing system would work, and be back before supper. There had been nothing in the original plan about body swapping with someone trapped on an alien ship, or running a covert operation under the noses of the Langaran government by impersonating members of their government with the same body-swapping technology.

"You said your calculations would work. That it would be safe." Woolsey had frowned at him, but Rodney could tell that something he'd said was getting through.

"That's beside the point, isn't it? They said no. They had already made up their minds before I got there—they didn't even bother listening to what I had to say. We should have let it go then." It was hard to believe he was the one saying this, given how pig-headed he could be, but looking back at the mission now, he realized that the underlying deception was the thing that would have made John turn it down, had he been there to consult on it. Rodney had held Woolsey's gaze for a very long time, a trick he'd picked up from Elizabeth. It was Woolsey who'd looked away first.

He'd rubbed a hand over his bald skull, looking very tired. "You're not going to believe this, Dr. McKay, but I actually miss the Pegasus galaxy."

So later that night, when John had assaulted him in his own quarters, slamming him up against the wall in anger for the role he'd played on Langaria, Rodney had pushed back, equally as angry at himself, and, truth be told, John too. Because he'd expected John to have come up with A Plan by now. And if John had, none of them would be kicking their heels on Earth anymore and he wouldn't have been tempted to play games at the IOA's behest. Which is exactly what he told John as they smacked and punched at each other.

"So you're saying this is my fault?" John had growled, thumping Rodney up against the wall for good measure. It hadn't hurt that Rodney could feel the hard length of John's cock pressing against him as John wrestled him into admitting his actions on Langaria were wrong. Though he'd already done as much to Woolsey, somehow confessing to John that his actions had been a mistake was harder to do. Still, Rodney dimly perceived that John had been worried for his safety, which tempered some of his own anger a bit.

"Yes! Yes, this is all your fault!" Rodney had yelled back in his face just the same. "Yes, because what the hell are we still doing here on Earth, John? We don't belong here, and you know it."

John's face had altered. One minute he'd been pushing up into Rodney's space, practically frothing at the mouth with rage, and the next he'd looked as though he'd been struck with a two-by-four between the eyes. His pupils dilated suddenly and he closed in on Rodney's mouth, kissing him with a fervor that to this day made something curl inside Rodney's belly, tugging on his cock and begging for his attention.

"You're right," John had breathed into his mouth as he broke off the kiss, his breath a warm caress against Rodney's lips. He'd moved then, brushing his lips against Rodney's skin, working his way teasingly up this side of Rodney's neck. "Let's steal a city," he'd whispered into Rodney's ear.

Now _that_ had been an evening of some spontaneous and decidedly hot sex.

Rodney smiled with the recollection and set the suit aside. The other garment bag contained his fancy suit, the one he saved for weddings and special events. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd worn that over the last ten years. Frowning at the memory of the last time he'd worn it, he took it out of the protective cover. A faint musty smell reached his nostrils, and he realized that it must have still been slightly damp when he'd hung it up last. In fact, it was creased and crinkled, and if he hadn't liked the jacket that went with it so much, he'd probably concede that it wasn't worth trying to have it cleaned. It would need altering, too, for that matter. He held the jacket up, brushing the dark pin-striped material in the hopes of shaking out some of the wrinkles. Turning the jacket from side to side in his hands, he tried to decide if it was too 'high school prom' or not.

The last time he'd worn it, the jacket had been slightly too tight across his chest, with sleeves that were too long for his arms. He'd purchased the suit right out of grad school, thinking he would need something sharp to wear to special events, or, as he'd hoped, awards dinners. He remembered the chagrin he'd felt when he'd tried it on just before Tunney's presentation—he'd desperately wanted to impress Jennifer, and with Tunney sending a jet to pick them up, there had been no opportunity to buy another suit that fit him better when they'd arrived on Earth. Besides, he'd always thought the velvety material made him look dapper. He hadn't the time to get it altered then, either, and to be fair, there was only so much to be done about the tightness. Rodney had always been broad across the shoulders—even now he suspected the jacket still wouldn't fit. He slipped it on, surprised that it hung off of him in sloppy folds where once it had strained across his middle. He couldn't help but pose a little in front of the mirror as he rotated from side to side, clutching the lapels of the jacket together as he did so. His grin faded as he realized that even though he was back to his post-grad school weight again, the jacket still didn't fit him all that well. Probably because he hadn't been that careful when selecting it in the first place.

Well crap. A half-formed idea, where he would dress in his best suit and invite John to a candlelit dinner on the pier, withered on the vine like _greeling_ fruits in a summer's drought.

Well, now, wait a minute. His mind flashed back to the numerous occasions he'd seen Zelenka, needle and thread in hand, repairing some article of clothing, his fuzzy head bent over the cloth with the same concentration he'd give to one of his scientific projects. Radek might seem an unlikely tailor, but Rodney suspected if anyone in the city could make alterations to his suit, it would be Radek. Besides, it wouldn't call for major alterations. Shorten the sleeves a little, perhaps. Maybe take it in a little on the sides. He bundled it back into the garment bag, ready to toss it over his arm and head down to the labs, when he caught his reflection in the mirror again.

He watched himself rub his chin thoughtfully. No, before he sought out Radek, a shave and a change of clothing was in order. At least the next time John saw him, he'd be able to tell where Rodney's hair ended and his jaw line began.

***

Radek looked doubtful when Rodney handed him the suit. "You want me to alter this?"

Rodney was already irritated. Now smoothly shaven (though not without a few nicks due to his haste), and wearing one of his favorite tunics from the first year of the expedition (the one with the short sleeves that showed his biceps to their advantage, and had the whatchamacallems—darts?—down the sides that emphasized his current slimness), he'd meant to bring up the issue of alterations on his arrival at the labs, only he'd been sucked in to first checking the results of several experiments, and then dealing with a few in-house fires that needed putting out. It was nearly lunchtime before he remembered the suit, still languishing in the garment bag draped over his chair. "Yes, yes. Hardly a difficult problem. I believe you possess the rudimentary skills of sewing, am I correct? I seem to recall you sewing on a button here and there before."

Radek pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a stalling gesture that had always annoyed Rodney. "There is a difference between sewing on a button and making serious alterations to a suit." He opened the bag and then wrinkled his nose as the odor struck him. "Have you thought about just starting over again with something else?"

"There's nothing wrong with this suit!" Rodney felt like snatching it back from Radek's disapproving hands. "Nothing a good cleaning won't solve. You can't get a fine suit like this anymore."

"No," Radek murmured, holding the suit by the hanger within the open bag with the intent on passing it back to Rodney. "Not since the 1970s, at least."

Simpson chose that moment to walk up to Rodney with one of the weekly reports for him to read and sign off on. "Whew!" She waved a hand in front of her face. "Did something die around here?" She looked around the lab with a grimace.

"Rodney's suit," Radek said gravely.

"Hah-hah. Very funny. Ouch, you're killing me with the one-liners here. Are you saying this task is beyond your skills?" Rodney knew from long experience the best way to get Radek to do something he didn't want to do was to imply that he couldn't do it. He gave Simpson a glare that made her edge off without leaving the reports for his signature.

Radek narrowed his eyes behind his glasses and pushed the suit into Rodney's chest, forcing him to take it. "Not at all. I am just thinking you could do better."

Rodney tried to push the suit back. "Really. Out here in Pegasus? The only suit I am likely to get on short notice is one made out of goat hair."

Radek thrust the suit at him and let go, forcing Rodney to take the hanger or let it fall to the floor. "Why on short notice? Why can't you wait and select something that would suit your...personality? Something with a bit more flair, perhaps?" Radek too, it would seem, knew how to play the game.

Rodney clutched the suit to his chest, torn between Radek's suggestion and the need to have something _now_. He didn't even know why it was so important that he have something now, he only knew that it was. He pictured himself in one of the sleek long tunics from Borgan—the brocaded silk jackets that extended to the floor with matching pants. It was tempting, but he knew such an outfit from Borgan would take weeks to create, and there was no way he could get it without everyone in the city knowing that he'd done so. He wanted to keep this quiet, if at all possible. He lowered his voice. "I don't want everyone knowing that I'm planning a special evening, okay?"

Radek raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips, and finally spoke. "You will need to put on the suit. I will find some chalk."

Rodney didn't question Radek's need for chalk or anything else. He scampered into the supply closet to change clothing before Radek changed his mind. In the close, dark confines of the closet, the suit definitely smelled more than a little funky, and Rodney hoped that a simple washing would resolve that problem. Only he suspected the suit needed to be dry cleaned, and he wasn't even remotely sure how to go about cleaning it in Pegasus.

He exited the closet, slightly self-conscious as he walked over to Radek, daring him to make a derisive comment. Radek only pursed his lips again and walked around Rodney in a circle. Rodney could see that he had indeed, found a stick of chalk, and had also produced a tape measure from somewhere as well.

"You'll need to stand on a chair."

That proved easier said than done, as the two of them searched for a chair that wasn't on wheels. Staff members scurried about; finally Miko came back from the lounge with a folding chair and Rodney carefully stepped up on it. Miko hovered about so he could put a hand on her shoulder for balance, and Radek hummed and hawed and tutted as he swooped in with measuring implements and chalk, marking hemlines here and there as he muttered to himself.

Rodney stood still on the chair with his arms outstretched and tried not to notice the crowd they were drawing.

"Watch it!" he said sharply to Radek, when his hands had come a little too close to his crotch for comfort. Radek had merely rolled his eyes.

"Do you wish me to do this or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course I do! Just...be careful, okay?" Rodney folded his lips in a thin line and tried to ignore Radek as he worked. He glared at the rest of the scientists gathered around. "What are you people standing around here for? Get back to work!"

Esposito gave her disarming smile. "You have to admit, Dr. McKay, it's hard to resist a man in a nice suit."

"Mmmm." Simpson hummed in agreement, having drifted back to watch the proceedings with everyone else. "Yes, nothing beats a sharp-dressed man."

Rodney couldn't help preening a little, despite the fact that the people nearest to him were sniffing the air delicately and exchanging glances. He pretended not to notice.

"What's the occasion?" Hendricks asked. He rested a hip on one of the desks, looking as though this was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all week. Rodney supposed that as exciting events went in Atlantis these days, this was as good as anything else. Hendricks was also eating a bagel with what passed for cream cheese in Pegasus, and Rodney suddenly remembered that he'd skipped breakfast when his stomach gurgled. No wonder he was so cranky. Radek gave his belly a glance, smirking as he continued making his measurements.

"Oh, do say there's going to be some sort of special party," Simpson pleaded. "A new ambassador taking a tour of the city? The celebration of a treaty signing? That would be nice. Oh! I know! How about a wedding!"

"What is it with you ladies?" Rodney snapped. "Put a man in a suit and you automatically start hearing wedding bells. I am _not_ getting married, thank you very much!"

Simpson looked taken aback. "I didn't mean you, Dr. McKay. I thought maybe you knew something we didn't. Like perhaps Ronon and Sergeant-Major Worthington-Smythe."

Rodney felt his jaw drop. Both in response to Simpson's suggestion that Ronon might be contemplating marriage and that she knew Dani's name and rank. He spluttered something about how he couldn't see Ronon getting married but in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was true any longer. Certainly Dani had a way of assuming something as fact and then it _became_ fact and she did it without ever seeming as though she was overly controlling or manipulative. And Ronon seemed devoted to her. Huh. Something to think about.

"Why do you want the suit altered, Dr. McKay?" Miko's quiet question had him looking down at her, where he'd unconsciously placed his hand on her shoulder at some point during the proceedings.

"I uh, er..." Rodney trailed off, taking a finger to loosen his shirt at the collar. "I thought it would be nice. You know. To have a good suit. In case I needed it. On short notice, I mean. After all, it's been sitting in my closet for years—" _Five years without ever being touched_. "When you need a nice suit, you need it. You don't have time for alterations then. Besides. Sometimes a guy likes to look his best. It's not always a girl thing, you know."

Miko shook her head carefully, so that Rodney wouldn't lose his balance. "If you are planning a surprise for the Colonel, I am puzzled that you don't know him that well after all this time together."

Rodney felt the heat rush into his face, two parts embarrassed flush and one part anger. Even after all this time, he still felt as though he had to pretend that he and John were just really good friends. To discuss their relationship openly, especially with his subordinates, felt dangerous and wrong. _After you steal a city, everything pales in comparison._ The voice in his head chiding him sounded remarkably like John. "What do you mean?" He tried very hard to temper his response and not bite Miko's head off.

She blinked up at him behind her thick glasses. "It is just that the Colonel wears a uniform all the time. Always, he is on duty. I cannot think his idea of fun would include dressing up on his down time too."

Rodney opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't forcing John to dress up too, but even as he did so, he realized by virtue of the fact that he was going to be wearing a nice suit, John would probably feel obligated to do the same, especially if Rodney arranged a special evening together for the two of them. He closed his mouth, and then opened it once more (feeling vaguely like a guppy when he did so), but before he could speak, the radio in his ear went off.

It was John.

"Hey." The familiar drawl made Rodney smile. Catching himself doing so, he frowned and held up a finger at Miko, assuming his listening pose.

"Hey yourself."

"You about ready for lunch? I'm headed down to the labs now. I can meet you there."

Rodney's stomach growled in total agreement with this plan. He glanced around at all the attentive faces watching him, and swatted Zelenka away as he scrambled down off the chair. "No, no!" He realized he sounded panicky and back pedaled. "I mean, I'm in the middle of something right now. Meet you for dinner instead?"

"Okay." John sounded a little disappointed, which was why Rodney offered an alternative.

"Say, why don't we do something different for dinner tonight? Like, I dunno, grill something on the pier or take a jumper to the mainland for a picnic?"

Simpson and Esposito smiled and folded their hands over their respective hearts, tilting their heads to one side in unison. If they'd been men, Rodney would have given them the finger. Instead, he stuck his tongue out, causing them both to giggle.

"That could be done." John sounded more cheerful. "You want me to set it up? Since you're busy and all."

"Would you mind? That would be awesome." He shooed Radek away and started peeling off the jacket.

"Least I can do." John said something else in a quieter voice, which Rodney wasn't entirely sure about but it sounded as though he'd added, "Besides, that way, I make sure I get more than rabbit food to eat."

When he opened his mouth to say something about it, John interrupted. "I've got a meeting with Woolsey at 1800. How about we meet at 19:30 on the East Pier? I'll bring the beer."

"You know I've given up beer," Rodney said primly, scowling at the scientists clustered around him who booed him quietly and pelted him with balled up paper. He made an angry chopping motion with his hands, and they moved away from his wrath, still laughing amongst themselves.

"Did I say beer? I meant ale. See you at 19:30. Sheppard out." John signed off before Rodney could protest further.

"When do you need the suit?" Radek took the jacket from Rodney and hung it back on its hanger.

"Oh, no hurry, no hurry." Rodney glanced down at his pants, only to see a spot of white mold on them. He brushed at it, only succeeding in smearing the spores in a gray smudge on the black cloth.

"Good." Radek said with a sigh. "This could take some time."

***

When he stepped out onto the pier that evening, he saw at once what Miko had meant. John had laid out the old fuzzy plaid blanket they'd been picnicking on for years near the edge of the pier and was in the process of unpacking a heavily laden basket. Unlike the evenings in the Bay, the breeze coming off the water was balmy and tropical by comparison. The city lights were coming on in the fading twilight; the sun was a great red disk sinking slowly into the sea. Despite the fact that the East Pier no longer faced the east, old habits died hard. They'd tried once renaming the various bits of the city, but people only got hopelessly confused.

That wasn't what caught his attention, however, even with as romantic a picture as John presented, backlit by the setting sun, the wind ruffling the fringes of his hair. No, it was the crumpled white cotton shirt that he wore, along with the worn jeans faded to almost sky blue, white at the knees where the fabric was thinning and fraying at the hems. His feet were bare as he moved around the picnic spread, and Rodney realized that Miko was right. This was John at his most relaxed, his most comfortable. And nary a suit in sight.

He looked up briefly with Rodney's approach, then leaned down and picked up a bottle of beer. He took out the Leatherman Rodney had given him for Christmas while they were still on Earth and opened the bottle, tossing the cap into the basket. He held the beer out to Rodney as he came to stand by the basket.

"Oh, thank God." Molson. His favorite. Good to know there was still some left in the city. John was more a Bud man himself, and though Rodney couldn't abide the stuff, Pegasus beggars couldn't be choosers. He took a generous swig, aware that he hadn't eaten more than a granola bar all day and that if he wasn't careful, the alcohol would go to his head. Belatedly, he remembered he'd given up beer, along with all forms of wheat entirely. Oh well, it's not like they could recap the bottle.

John just grinned at him over the lip of his own bottle. "Cheers," he said, on swallowing.

Rodney threw himself down to the picnic. "What have you got here? Oh my God, I'm starving. Did I mention that I've barely eaten today?" He plucked three or four grapes, with condensation still beading on them, from the cluster lying on a plate, and shoved them in his mouth, moaning over the burst of flavor as he chewed. Oh hell, bread. Hot crusty bread fresh from the oven in tiny loaves and sliced with little pats of butter melting down their sides. He couldn't resist. He'd already had some beer. He'd just officially fallen off the no-wheat wagon for the day. Might as well enjoy it.

"Damn you, Sheppard, you know I'm not eating bread." Rodney folded a slice in half to contain every last golden drop of butter and shoved it in his mouth.

"You're not eating much of anything these days." John sat down on the edge of the pier so that his legs could hang down over the water, twisting so he could reach the contents of the basket. He set about making himself a sandwich, layering meat, cheese, tomatoes and mayo into a neat stack.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oh dear heaven, John had brought some of the not!chicken which somehow tasted even better than chicken from Earth. Fried to crispy perfection, Rodney bit into a leg with appreciation. He pulled off a piece of seasoned skin, murmuring his satisfaction as the crunchy portion came away from the white flesh. He licked the oil from his fingers as he chewed.

John shrugged with one shoulder as he bit into his sandwich. "Only that I think you're taking this diet thing a bit too far."

Rodney frowned. "I didn't not eat today on purpose. I just got busy and forgot." There was a time when John would have seen to it that Rodney always had plenty of food on hand, but somewhere along the way, like really cool birthday gifts and unplanned make-out sessions, the times when John showed up at the lab to feed him were rare these days. Rodney had tried not to take it personally. They were just an old, established couple, that's all.

"I'm not talking about today." Maddeningly, John had finished chewing and swallowed before he spoke. "I'm talking about all the weird diets and the crazy exercise. One week you won't eat bread because it's been genetically modified—"

"It has," Rodney interrupted. "The stuff is poison, I'm telling you!"

"On Earth, maybe. But there's no genetically modified wheat in Pegasus, Rodney."

"Not yet." Rodney let his voice go dark as only a conspiracy theorist could do. "When the people of Pegasus figure out the advantage of high-yield crops and how that can dramatically change their ability to feed their populations, we'll have single-handedly offered them a way to feed everyone in a manner they can't resist, while at the same time setting up those same populations for diabetes, and obesity, and—"

"So we won't do it." John waved a slice of bread in Rodney's face. "That's not what this is. This is the old stuff, the kind of wheat you can't find on Earth anymore. The kind the Ancients brought with them in the first place. We'll market it to Earth, not the other way around."

Rodney gaped at him a moment, then snatched the bread from his hand and began to eat it. "That," he said around his mouthful of chewy brown bread, "is one of the best ideas you've had yet."

John looked both startled and pleased, and Rodney got the impression that he hadn't even intended to set up Atlantis as a distributor of Pegasus Galaxy goods until just that very moment. Rodney grinned at him and took another swig of beer.

They ate in silence for a moment. John methodically worked his way through his massive sandwich. Rodney circled around all the items in the basket—a piece of fruit, a slice of bread, a not!chicken wing, some baked tava beans that had been flavored with honey molasses and bacon. He savored each of the flavors in turn, leaving the sweetness of the beans for the tartness of the fruit for the warm melted buttery perfection of the yeast-risen bread. He licked his fingers and burped, which made John snort into his beer.

"Besides," Rodney picked up the reins of the conversation as though it had never paused. "I got tired of Ronon's digs about my weight."

"If this is about Ronon—" John began, clearly intent on intervening on Rodney's behalf. Rodney stopped him with a raised hand.

"No, Ronon was right. There was a period of time in which I was really unhappy and stressed, and I dealt with it by eating." He noted with interest that is was not during the first couple of years of the expedition, when one would have expected the stress of nearly dying every day to have been a factor. No, it wasn't until much later, when he'd been trying to make himself into the proper boyfriend and husband material. The harder he'd tried to conform to what Katie, and then Jennifer had wanted, the more he'd eaten. It was worse when Jennifer had weighed in from a medical standpoint, warning him about high blood pressure and incipient diabetes. The more she'd gently cautioned him about his eating habits, the more he'd consumed.

"So you gave up everything you liked to eat?" John raised an eyebrow at him. "Just to lose weight?"

Rodney shook his head. "Not just to lose weight." _To keep up with you. So I would be around for the long haul. So you wouldn't have to take care of a sick old man at some point in your future._

"Well, if you ask me, you can stop with the weight loss thing now. You're almost too skinny. The Gelphian ambassador asked me the other day if you were ill." John looked at Rodney sideways over his beer bottle again, and Rodney could see the unspoken question in his eyes.

"I am not sick, if that's what you're asking."

He almost missed the slight relaxation of John's shoulders, the tension that he hadn't noticed before oozing out of him carefully, so as not to be obvious.

"Idiot. You thought I was sick or something, didn't you? Maybe even dying, right? Admit it." Rodney snorted back a laugh and popped some more grapes in his mouth. John should have known better. Since when had Rodney ever kept quiet about something seriously wrong with him? He wondered how long John had been stewing over this, getting up the nerve to ask him. He also wondered if John had already been down to pester Carson the Second over Rodney's medical files. He'd have to ask Carson tomorrow. One could never have too much ammunition when it came to John Sheppard.

"Did not." John sounded very much like a sulky Torren, and a grin split Rodney's face as he pictured the two of them having a typical conversation.

"You so did." Rodney rocked his shoulders from side to side in a parody of his old 'Invulnerable' dance.

John threw a grape at him.

"Hey! Don't waste the food!" Rodney plucked the grape out of his lap and ate it.

John leaned back on one hand to drink from his beer bottle. The sun, setting in glorious streaks of red and gold now, burnished his face with a warm light, even as the wind continued to play lightly with his hair. The golden rays of the sun made his hazel eyes almost topaz in color, and Rodney was reminded of a hawk or an eagle—both birds of prey equally as likely to be John's totem animal. He was so beautiful to look at that it nearly took Rodney's breath away.

"Just as long as you weren't trying to lose weight on my behalf."

Rodney stopped chewing mid-grape and swallowed.

"You know. Because you thought you had to, for some stupid reason."

"You're saying you don't find me—that is to say, I'm too skinny for your tastes right now?" Holy crap. Who'd have thought it? John Sheppard a chubby-chaser? Rodney was both appalled and just a tiny bit relieved because at least now, when his weight cycled back up, and it would, it always did these days, he wouldn't have to nearly kill himself to get it back off again.

"No." John gave the word the drawling disdain that only he could. "I'm saying I'm all for you taking better care of yourself. As long as it's for you and not anyone else."

Rodney put back the third slice of buttered bread. "Well, that's not entirely fair," he said at last. "I started exercising and watching what I ate because I didn't like the way I felt, or how hard it was to keep up with you and Ronon and Teyla in the field. I did it because Jennifer was right," he paused, trying hard not to make a face, "and that I was heading for some major health problems if I didn't change. And I did it because I didn't like the way I looked. I didn't feel attractive anymore. I worried that...well, to be honest I worried that someone as hot as you wouldn't be interested in me anymore."

John turned eyes on him that blazed with anger. "What are you saying, Rodney? That you thought I might get tired of you? That I might start cheating or something?"

Cheating. In Rodney's wildest nightmares, cheating had never come up. That John might dump him, yes, but _cheat_? Never. The very idea made him sputter. "No! No! I just thought, you know, that you might move on. Someone like you—I mean, hell, you could have anybody you wanted, John."

"I don't want anybody. I want you." He said it in such a surly voice that Rodney found it hard to believe that this was actually a declaration of sorts, and suddenly the realization of what he needed to do smacked him between the eyes. He set down his empty plate and the bottle of beer and swept aside the picnic items, crawling over toward John on his hands and knees.

"McKay!" John protested when the beer spilled on the blanket, bottle rolling to one side with a clink of sound. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Come here, you," Rodney said softly, reaching out for John's face and pulling him, twisting sideways from the ledge, within kissing range. Rodney kissed him, not with the fervor of their first time, when heat, sorrow, and exhaustion had driven the fine edge of need and forced combustion between them because they'd had no other way to contain the reaction. Nor did he kiss John with the sly knowing demand of someone who knew his body so well that he knew how to wring every last ounce of pleasure from it, leaving both of them sated and content. No, this was the kiss between friends and lovers who'd known each other for years. Who knew the ins and outs of their mouths, the intimate smell of their skin, their hair. Who knew the person inside that skin as well as he knew himself. This was the kiss of someone not wanting just to bring his partner to a satisfying physical conclusion in the next seven to ten minutes but someone who wanted to prolong that pleasure for the rest of their lives.

Rodney kept pulling and John kept following the demand of his hands, until somehow John was underneath him in the wreckage of their picnic and Rodney was on top of him. His hands were in John's hair, his shoes were scrabbling on the deck for purchase. John had his hands under Rodney's shirt, shoving his fingers down inside Rodney's waistband, splayed against the warm skin there. They dug in and shifted Rodney's hips slightly, aligning them in such a way that the little grinding thrusts he was scarcely aware that he was making suddenly found delicious contact and Rodney found himself grunting his pleasure against John's mouth.

It was so good. He had to break off his kiss to moan and pant, aware that John was rocking against him too, trying to hold himself still enough to be the brace that Rodney needed, yet caught up in the need to push and thrust as well.

It wasn't going to be enough though. With a growl of frustration, Rodney sat up so that he could straddle John's thighs, fumbling with his zipper as John worked open the copper buttons of his fly. For once, John's attachment to those blue striped boxers made Rodney smile as he was easily able to reach within and take hold of John's cock. The touch of Rodney's hand caused John to arch upward, and Rodney shuddered when he grasped both dicks in his hands and rubbed them together.

That was all it took. So primed, the contact was like the ignition of a fuse. Rodney had scarcely started when he cried out and shuddered come over his hands; John tensed and came shortly behind him.

Rodney sat on his heels, taking some of his weight off John's legs as he looked down at John's sleepy eyed expression. "Napkin?" he offered, reaching back to grab one of the fluttering napkins before the wind gusted it away.

"Why thank you, don't mind if I do." John was using his fake British upper crust voice, the one that never failed to make Rodney snort.

He levered himself off John, tucking himself back in and zipping his fly after wiping off his own hands. He continued to rest on his heels, watching as John straightened his clothing as well. He made a half-hearted attempt to re-button his fly but gave up.

"Here. Let me." Rodney pushed his hands away and worked on John's fly, noting that John had leaned back on one hand again and had rescued what was left of his beer. Rodney waited until the timing was just right, and then asked, "Marry me?"

Oh. It was beautiful. John sprayed beer in an arc that lit up in the dying light like beads of gold. Rodney only just managed to avoid getting sprayed himself though.

"What did you say?" John spluttered.

Rodney gave him That Look. The one that said _don't make me repeat myself_. John swallowed hard, stalling for time. "You um, want to get married?"

"I believe that's what I said."

"Huh." John set down his bottle, straightening so that he sat squarely on his rump. He ran a hand through his hair before bringing it to rest on one knee. "You sure about this?"

"Yes."

"Um. Okay?" His expression started out uncertain at first, then relaxed into a smile when he saw that Rodney was smiling as well.

"Great. That's all settled then." He got to his feet. For once, John hadn't jumped up first. In fact, John still looked slightly stunned. Rodney reached down and offered him a hand. He pulled John up, laughing when John sagged against him in mock weakness. He held him there a moment, savoring the scent of his hair and then set him upright on his feet.

"You're really sure about this?" John asked, his eyebrow getting into the act once more.

"Yes," Rodney said. "For better or worse."

"In sickness and in health." John took his hand, something he rarely did, but it never failed to fill Rodney with a rush of emotion.

"Through thick and thin," Rodney murmured, kissing him again.

—end—


End file.
